I do not give an explanation every time I write a poem, I just go about with the emotion and hope somebody gets what I’m saying. But this piece of art has a story and one worth telling. 

In school, back in the early 80s, there was an Art teacher everyone was petrified of: Mrs Karuna Saha. I was lucky, I came in contact with Karuna Saha as a volatile and ‘impossible child’ (as my mother used to call me) who could somewhat draw. In fact my father always used to say that when he drew an apple, he had to label it as ‘apple’, my apples actually looked like apples! He encouraged my art, my endless hours of pouring over sketch books and had a comment (or a few) to make of each. 

Then entered Ms. Karuna Saha in my life. I was fortunate. Strict, upright and demanding, there were girls who would groan and gripe but I finally was free. Soon enough she assessed her students, so while the rest of the class was told to draw a vase or a scenery, I (and a few others) were allowed to explore with our paints, turning our pages into our colours and lives. I did not know Karuna Saha much and was more than a little bit frightened of her too, but I thrived in the freedom she gave me. 

The first exhibition held by the “Panchkanya”, as one of the artists of the first all-female artists group was in 1983 and of course I went for it. (If interested, you can read more here: https://www.getbengal.com/details/panchakanya-of-india-s-first-all-female-artists-group-getbengal-story). I was young and gangly and dragged my father to the exhibition. There were two men in my life who instinctively knew when my eyes lit up when I saw something I liked: one was my father-in-law and the other was my own father. I was 12 maybe going on 13 and this painting caught my eye. A few days later, after paying a hefty sum of Rs. 25,000, which was no mean joke in 1983, the painting, enigmatically titled “Sunflowers” was home! It was displayed in our dining room and much talked about and after I was married, my mother ensured it was sent to my (new) home  where it stayed in our bedroom. 

A few years ago we moved, no, I left the painting there as that apartment too remains intact. This year, we decided to get that flat painted and after all was done, I visited. To my dismay, the painting had been damaged, there were marks and traces of turpentine and spirits… I brought it home. Home to where we live now. 

And forgive me my arrogance but I tried to “restore” the painting, first by cleaning it and then by blending paint so the damaged marks were gone. I do not know what or who gave me the guts or audacity to even attempt to touch a painting by such a renowned artist but I managed to bring back the shade of blue (it was not easy). Ms. Saha wanted me to go to Art school. When my father asked me if that was what I wanted I always said no. I wanted to study law, art was just a hobby. Today I wonder if things would have been different had I gone to Art school…. Maybe in some parallel world I did.

Ms. Saha died in 1996, I visited, of course. That was the first time, among complete strangers I encountered a grieving full of song and music, not mourning. And that is when I first understood what my father meant when he said, “celebrate a life, do not mourn it’s passing”.

These are my teachers, among others, those who taught me to love. And hence the poem, as always, to my father too.

How to visit the dead:

Imagine a place where you cannot go. 

Enter the room, locate the seating

Take the settee facing Southwards

Facing the balcony and the breeze.

Take in the ambience, the dining table

Behind you, that painting on the wall

That is not really there, sunflowers 

Bursting as far as the eye can see. 

 Sit so the right side of your body 

Leans on the right, put your feet

Up on the table before you, enjoy

The space, the drink that appears 

By your side, you control the noise

the sounds only you make, the voices you

Want to hear, the radio from long ago

The football match, Bolero drums

marching to a crescendo, you hum 

as your father did when he sat like this, 

a waft of Old Spice and Talcum powder

the conversations echoing in space.

A space untouched for years, waiting

For the voices that once held sway 

To return this way, a space where 

you belong and belonged. And always will.